บทที่ บทที่ 19 · ‘I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner of

. ‘I have told you these two episodes at length to show his manner of

dealing with himself under the new conditions of his life. There were

many others of the sort, more than I could count on the fingers of my

two hands. They were all equally tinged by a high-minded absurdity of

intention which made their futility profound and touching. To fling away

your daily bread so as to get your hands free for a grapple with a ghost

may be an act of prosaic heroism. Men had done it before (though we who

have lived know full well that it is not the haunted soul but the hungry

body that makes an outcast), and men who had eaten and meant to eat

every day had applauded the creditable folly. He was indeed unfortunate,

for all his recklessness could not carry him out from under the shadow.

There was always a doubt of his courage. The truth seems to be that

it is impossible to lay the ghost of a fact. You can face it or shirk

it--and I have come across a man or two who could wink at their familiar

shades. Obviously Jim was not of the winking sort; but what I could

never make up my mind about was whether his line of conduct amounted to

shirking his ghost or to facing him out.

‘I strained my mental eyesight only to discover that, as with the

complexion of all our actions, the shade of difference was so delicate

that it was impossible to say. It might have been flight and it might

have been a mode of combat. To the common mind he became known as a

rolling stone, because this was the funniest part: he did after a time

become perfectly known, and even notorious, within the circle of his

wanderings (which had a diameter of, say, three thousand miles), in the

same way as an eccentric character is known to a whole countryside. For

instance, in Bankok, where he found employment with Yucker Brothers,

charterers and teak merchants, it was almost pathetic to see him go

about in sunshine hugging his secret, which was known to the very

up-country logs on the river. Schomberg, the keeper of the hotel where

he boarded, a hirsute Alsatian of manly bearing and an irrepressible

retailer of all the scandalous gossip of the place, would, with both

elbows on the table, impart an adorned version of the story to any guest

who cared to imbibe knowledge along with the more costly liquors. “And,

mind you, the nicest fellow you could meet,” would be his generous

conclusion; “quite superior.” It says a lot for the casual crowd that

frequented Schomberg’s establishment that Jim managed to hang out

in Bankok for a whole six months. I remarked that people, perfect

strangers, took to him as one takes to a nice child. His manner was

reserved, but it was as though his personal appearance, his hair, his

eyes, his smile, made friends for him wherever he went. And, of course,

he was no fool. I heard Siegmund Yucker (native of Switzerland), a

gentle creature ravaged by a cruel dyspepsia, and so frightfully lame

that his head swung through a quarter of a circle at every step he took,

declare appreciatively that for one so young he was “of great gabasidy,”

as though it had been a mere question of cubic contents. “Why not send

him up country?” I suggested anxiously. (Yucker Brothers had concessions

and teak forests in the interior.) “If he has capacity, as you say,

he will soon get hold of the work. And physically he is very fit. His

health is always excellent.” “Ach! It’s a great ting in dis goundry

to be vree vrom tispep-shia,” sighed poor Yucker enviously, casting a

stealthy glance at the pit of his ruined stomach. I left him drumming

pensively on his desk and muttering, “Es ist ein’ Idee. Es ist ein’

Idee.” Unfortunately, that very evening an unpleasant affair took place

in the hotel.

‘I don’t know that I blame Jim very much, but it was a truly regrettable

incident. It belonged to the lamentable species of bar-room scuffles,

and the other party to it was a cross-eyed Dane of sorts whose

visiting-card recited, under his misbegotten name: first lieutenant in

the Royal Siamese Navy. The fellow, of course, was utterly hopeless at

billiards, but did not like to be beaten, I suppose. He had had enough

to drink to turn nasty after the sixth game, and make some scornful

remark at Jim’s expense. Most of the people there didn’t hear what

was said, and those who had heard seemed to have had all precise

recollection scared out of them by the appalling nature of the

consequences that immediately ensued. It was very lucky for the Dane

that he could swim, because the room opened on a verandah and the Menam

flowed below very wide and black. A boat-load of Chinamen, bound, as

likely as not, on some thieving expedition, fished out the officer of

the King of Siam, and Jim turned up at about midnight on board my ship

without a hat. “Everybody in the room seemed to know,” he said, gasping

yet from the contest, as it were. He was rather sorry, on general

principles, for what had happened, though in this case there had been,

he said, “no option.” But what dismayed him was to find the nature of

his burden as well known to everybody as though he had gone about all

that time carrying it on his shoulders. Naturally after this he couldn’t

remain in the place. He was universally condemned for the brutal

violence, so unbecoming a man in his delicate position; some maintained

he had been disgracefully drunk at the time; others criticised his want

of tact. Even Schomberg was very much annoyed. “He is a very nice young

man,” he said argumentatively to me, “but the lieutenant is a first-rate

fellow too. He dines every night at my table d’hote, you know. And

there’s a billiard-cue broken. I can’t allow that. First thing this

morning I went over with my apologies to the lieutenant, and I think

I’ve made it all right for myself; but only think, captain, if everybody

started such games! Why, the man might have been drowned! And here I

can’t run out into the next street and buy a new cue. I’ve got to write

to Europe for them. No, no! A temper like that won’t do!” . . . He was

extremely sore on the subject.

‘This was the worst incident of all in his--his retreat. Nobody could

deplore it more than myself; for if, as somebody said hearing him

mentioned, “Oh yes! I know. He has knocked about a good deal out here,”

yet he had somehow avoided being battered and chipped in the process.

This last affair, however, made me seriously uneasy, because if his

exquisite sensibilities were to go the length of involving him in

pot-house shindies, he would lose his name of an inoffensive, if

aggravating, fool, and acquire that of a common loafer. For all my

confidence in him I could not help reflecting that in such cases

from the name to the thing itself is but a step. I suppose you will

understand that by that time I could not think of washing my hands

of him. I took him away from Bankok in my ship, and we had a longish

passage. It was pitiful to see how he shrank within himself. A seaman,

even if a mere passenger, takes an interest in a ship, and looks at

the sea-life around him with the critical enjoyment of a painter,

for instance, looking at another man’s work. In every sense of the

expression he is “on deck”; but my Jim, for the most part, skulked down

below as though he had been a stowaway. He infected me so that I avoided

speaking on professional matters, such as would suggest themselves

naturally to two sailors during a passage. For whole days we did

not exchange a word; I felt extremely unwilling to give orders to my

officers in his presence. Often, when alone with him on deck or in the

cabin, we didn’t know what to do with our eyes.

‘I placed him with De Jongh, as you know, glad enough to dispose of him

in any way, yet persuaded that his position was now growing intolerable.

He had lost some of that elasticity which had enabled him to rebound

back into his uncompromising position after every overthrow. One

day, coming ashore, I saw him standing on the quay; the water of the

roadstead and the sea in the offing made one smooth ascending plane, and

the outermost ships at anchor seemed to ride motionless in the sky.

He was waiting for his boat, which was being loaded at our feet

with packages of small stores for some vessel ready to leave. After

exchanging greetings, we remained silent--side by side. “Jove!” he said

suddenly, “this is killing work.”

‘He smiled at me; I must say he generally could manage a smile. I made

no reply. I knew very well he was not alluding to his duties; he had an

easy time of it with De Jongh. Nevertheless, as soon as he had spoken

I became completely convinced that the work was killing. I did not even

look at him. “Would you like,” said I, “to leave this part of the world

altogether; try California or the West Coast? I’ll see what I can

do . . .” He interrupted me a little scornfully. “What difference would

it make?” . . . I felt at once convinced that he was right. It would make

no difference; it was not relief he wanted; I seemed to perceive dimly

that what he wanted, what he was, as it were, waiting for, was something

not easy to define--something in the nature of an opportunity. I had

given him many opportunities, but they had been merely opportunities to

earn his bread. Yet what more could any man do? The position struck me

as hopeless, and poor Brierly’s saying recurred to me, “Let him creep

twenty feet underground and stay there.” Better that, I thought, than

this waiting above ground for the impossible. Yet one could not be sure

even of that. There and then, before his boat was three oars’ lengths

away from the quay, I had made up my mind to go and consult Stein in the

evening.

‘This Stein was a wealthy and respected merchant. His “house” (because

it was a house, Stein & Co., and there was some sort of partner who,

as Stein said, “looked after the Moluccas”) had a large inter-island

business, with a lot of trading posts established in the most

out-of-the-way places for collecting the produce. His wealth and his

respectability were not exactly the reasons why I was anxious to seek

his advice. I desired to confide my difficulty to him because he was

one of the most trustworthy men I had ever known. The gentle light of a

simple, unwearied, as it were, and intelligent good-nature illumined his

long hairless face. It had deep downward folds, and was pale as of a

man who had always led a sedentary life--which was indeed very far from

being the case. His hair was thin, and brushed back from a massive and

lofty forehead. One fancied that at twenty he must have looked very much

like what he was now at threescore. It was a student’s face; only the

eyebrows nearly all white, thick and bushy, together with the resolute

searching glance that came from under them, were not in accord with his,

I may say, learned appearance. He was tall and loose-jointed; his slight

stoop, together with an innocent smile, made him appear benevolently

ready to lend you his ear; his long arms with pale big hands had rare

deliberate gestures of a pointing out, demonstrating kind. I speak of

him at length, because under this exterior, and in conjunction with

an upright and indulgent nature, this man possessed an intrepidity of

spirit and a physical courage that could have been called reckless had

it not been like a natural function of the body--say good digestion, for

instance--completely unconscious of itself. It is sometimes said of a

man that he carries his life in his hand. Such a saying would have been

inadequate if applied to him; during the early part of his existence in

the East he had been playing ball with it. All this was in the past, but

I knew the story of his life and the origin of his fortune. He was also

a naturalist of some distinction, or perhaps I should say a learned

collector. Entomology was his special study. His collection of

Buprestidae and Longicorns--beetles all--horrible miniature monsters,

looking malevolent in death and immobility, and his cabinet of

butterflies, beautiful and hovering under the glass of cases on

lifeless wings, had spread his fame far over the earth. The name of this

merchant, adventurer, sometime adviser of a Malay sultan (to whom he

never alluded otherwise than as “my poor Mohammed Bonso”), had, on

account of a few bushels of dead insects, become known to learned

persons in Europe, who could have had no conception, and certainly would

not have cared to know anything, of his life or character. I, who knew,

considered him an eminently suitable person to receive my confidences

about Jim’s difficulties as well as my own.’